Хилари Боннер - Death Comes First

‘Shit,’ he cried.

In a split second he was out of the CID car and running. The offices which overlooked the harbour along that stretch were in darkness, but a few local residents had emerged from their waterside flats and were also running towards the scene. Vogel pushed through everybody.

‘Police, police, make way,’ he shouted.

Then, automatically, he added: ‘Did anyone see what happened?’

‘Yes,’ came a male voice out of the small crowd gathered by the railings. ‘This bloody great Range Rover swerved straight across the road, hit the railings and catapulted over. I was right behind, I saw exactly—’

Vogel didn’t hear any more. He could see something in the water. A head emerged. The head of a woman. He stared, willing his eyes to become quickly adjusted. Quite a lot of light was shining on the water. There were street lamps, the beams of car headlights, and shafts of light from the windows of buildings. It was not, however, enough to allow him to see the woman’s face clearly. But he was certain it was Joyce Mildmay. It had to be. The following motorist had said the vehicle was a Range Rover, and Joyce’s Range Rover had already been spotted heading this way.

The weather was terrible, worse than it had been all day. There were actually breakers in the Floating Harbour. The woman gasped for air. A substantial wave rolled over her. Both her arms came up and she disappeared again beneath the surface.

‘Shit,’ said Vogel again.

He was suddenly aware of Nobby Clarke, having presumably illegally abandoned the CID car for the second time that evening, by his side. He turned to her.

‘I can’t swim,’ he said.

Clarke didn’t seem to be listening. Neither did she hesitate. She pulled off her ankle boots, shrugged her way out of her jacket and jumped in.

Vogel felt not only helpless but pathetic. He was physically so inept. All he could do was watch as his DCI, performing an impressive crawl in extremely choppy conditions, powered her way out to the spot where the woman had last been seen. He did, at least, also call in the incident on his mobile and request all emergency services. Soonest.

But it didn’t occur to Vogel to look for a lifebelt or a life-line along the quayside. Fortunately a young man in the crowd did just that. He arrived at Vogel’s side with a lifebelt as Nobby Clarke, kicking her heels smartly in the air, duck-dived into the depths in search of Joyce Mildmay and whatever else she might find down there.

The young man was Alvin Nightingale. As soon as he had finished phoning in his sighting of Joyce Mildmay’s vehicle, Alvin had rushed out of his gran’s house, boarded the pre-loved 100cc Yamaha motorcycle he kept in the front garden, and taken off in hot pursuit, pushing the bike as fast as he could along the Portway. Alvin was going to show ’em. He really was.

‘I can help,’ he told Vogel. ‘I’m going in. I’m a trained life-saver.’

He thrust the lifebelt into Vogel’s arms. ‘Throw it in when I bring someone up,’ he ordered.

Then, perhaps sensing that Vogel was no action man, he added: ‘And don’t forget to hang on to the line.’

Vogel nodded. It was not police procedure to encourage civilians to take part in potentially dangerous rescue missions, and Vogel had no idea that Alvin Nightingale was employed by the Avon and Somerset Constabulary. In any case he was still a civilian. But there could be children in that sunken car, and Vogel’s senior officer was already risking her life.

Alvin Nightingale didn’t give Vogel time to think that through. He dived into the water as DCI Clarke resurfaced clutching the woman Vogel assumed to be Joyce Mildmay.

Alvin turned in the water and called above the noise of the rain and the wind for Vogel to throw in the lifebelt. Vogel did so. With the belt over one shoulder, Alvin swam out to Nobby Clarke and the woman she had rescued. He helped Clarke put the belt around the rescued woman, then began to swim with her to the shore, leaving Nobby Clarke to follow.

But the DCI had other plans. Up came her feet again as she made yet another dive. It was clear she was attempting to return to the submerged vehicle below.

Alvin reached the shore. Willing hands grabbed the half-drowned woman and pulled her out of the water. Vogel joined in. He saw at once that the woman was Joyce Mildmay, and that she wasn’t breathing. At least he had managed to complete a first-aid course, and he thought he was reasonably well-versed in emergency life-saving techniques. He was certainly trained in cardiopulmonary resuscitation, or CPR, although he’d never before had to execute it for real. He began chest compressions at once, rhythmically, and it seemed effectively, pumping Joyce’s chest. Gratifyingly, she spewed up sea water and, although barely conscious, began to breathe.

Meanwhile Alvin had returned to the site of the submerged vehicle.

He and Nobby Clarke made several more dives before coming up with another prone victim, this time a man, and bringing him to the quayside.

‘There are at least two people in the back,’ Clarke called up to Vogel. ‘One of them could be the daughter. We can’t get her out. She’s trapped. And the boy. I think he’s there too. Also trapped.’

Clarke was gasping for breath. Her face was grey with shock, and probably with exertion too, thought Vogel.

The fire brigade arrived as the DCI spoke. And a police emergency dive team.

‘We’ll take over now. Everybody stand back,’ someone shouted authoritatively.

Strong professional arms helped haul Clarke, Alvin Nightingale and the prone man on to the quayside.

The man, of whose identity Vogel had no idea, appeared to be dead. Nonetheless one of the paramedics on the scene started to go through the motions of revival.

Vogel’s attention was attracted by two other paramedics preparing to load the still prone but breathing Joyce Mildmay into an ambulance.

He hurried to her side. She had recovered consciousness. Her eyes were glazed but open.

‘Joyce, Joyce, who’s the man who was with you?’ Vogel asked.

She focused on him. Just about. But she made no attempt to answer.

‘My children,’ she murmured, her voice quivering. ‘My children.’

There was no query. Vogel thought she already knew the fate of her children. She had been there. She had been in the submerged car. And she had tried to dive down again to rescue them. She knew better than anyone that there was no hope. All the same, he lied to her. He felt he had to. At that moment anyway.

‘We’re still trying,’ he said. ‘We have divers here. Is there anyone else still down there, apart from the children?’

She shut her eyes, as if trying to shut everything out.

‘My children,’ she said again, weakly.

Vogel was getting no further.

He repeated his earlier question: ‘Who is the man?’

‘What?’

‘Who is the man?’ Vogel asked for the third time. ‘They’ve brought up a man.’

‘Charlie?’ she murmured. ‘Charlie?’

There was puzzlement in her voice, as if she couldn’t understand why Vogel needed to ask her the question.

Joyce was obviously in pain. She was bleeding heavily from cuts on her face and arms. She must be in a state of the most horrendous shock. Vogel wondered if she were delirious.

‘Charlie, your husband Charlie?’ he queried.

Joyce managed a slight nod and suddenly opened her eyes again. They were bright with anguished fury.

‘The fucking fucking fucking bastard,’ she wailed, as the paramedics completed their lift. ‘He drove us into the water... straight into the water... he has murdered his own children...’

The wailing became incoherent.

Vogel stared at the closing doors of the ambulance. He was still staring as it pulled away in the direction of Southmead.